my grandmother's candor

It's interesting how this blog has turned from mate-hating rant to poetic reminiscence of said mate (and I'm using the term 'poetic' loosely). My 84-year-old grand-mother, rational and unsentimental as always, told me how puzzled she is by the phenomenon of women who always complained about their husbands and then can't stop talking about how much they miss them once they've passed. All she wants to do is to remind them about the reality of their relationship. Or apparent reality. I guess, she decided to start with me.

My grandmother has always been sort of to the point like that. When I excitedly announced that I was pregnant with my first child, the conversation went something like this:

Me:"I'm pregnant!"
Grandma: "Oh well, ... I guess, you can kiss all your dreams and passions good-bye then because you won't have any more time for them once that kid is born."
Me: "Ehm ... you DID hear that I am already pregnant, right?
Grandma: "I'm just trying to be realistic."

Granted, I was 23 years old then - perhaps a bit young still to have a child. At least, in her mind, as she was expecting me to move on to Graduate School at that point.

Anyway, I love my grand-mother's candor. And she is right -- somewhat. I did like to complain. It's what I do best. But, this habit never reflects the full picture of the state of my mind. I was happy when I was with J. I don't regret a single day I spent with him. I couldn't believe that I actually ended up with my soul-mate. The fact that he was an addict and an alcoholic is what drove me mad. J didn't seem to be made for this world. He never could cope with the dark realities of this planet and its inhabitants, even in the times he decided to join instead of fight. He was an extreme character with incredibly low self-confidence, despite his brilliance and the love and enthusiasm people had for him. He was bi-polar and he self-medicated himself into addiction. That's the simplified version, of course.

I can't help but wonder whether J's overdose was on purpose. If it was an overdose. Because, until this day, I have questions about the day of his death.
Ultimately, of course, none of this matters, for it won't bring him back.
Death is so damn final. I don't like final.